


In The End

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brain Damage, Brain Injury, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Memory Loss, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-16 05:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 9,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a brain injury leaves Sherlock unable to make new memories, John wonders how Sherlock will cope, and what it will mean for The Work and their life. Because after all, how can you live if you can't feel time passing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the movie Memento, and while very different, I wouldn't have had the plot bunny without it.  
> Not using warnings, but some do apply.
> 
> Has been translated into Chinese here: http://www.mtslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=91785&extra=page%3D1%26filter%3Dtypeid%26typeid%3D29%26typeid%3D29  
> (The site requires an account.)

30 minutes. 30 minutes was the amount of time it took John to boil water on the stove in his first flat. 30 minutes was the amount of time it took to listen to one of those amusing radio shows about the aeroplanes. 30 minutes was the amount of time it took to write a blog post, solve a murder, bake a cake. 30 minutes was all it took to enjoy a cup of tea, interrogate a suspect, perform an experiment.

And yet, so very little could be done in only 30 minutes.

Life could not be lived in 30 minutes.

No matter how many of those 30 minutes you had.

 

30 minutes.

That was all he had left now.

 

It wasn't like it was overly important all the time even. Sherlock could look at a crime scene, rattle off his deductions, and be done in less than twenty minutes.

But not all the time. And contrary to what Sherlock would have many believe, their life wasn't just crime scenes and murders. There was a lot of time in between those few cases deemed acceptable by Sherlock, and John knew it had to be filled somehow that didn't include shooting walls or exploding microwaves. It was hard to keep Sherlock occupied before, and even worse now that something would only hold his attention for a short time before he forgot that he was.

It was an advantage in that he could redirect Sherlock back to the same thing a dozen times without him knowing he'd done it already. Of course, Sherlock was often too clever to fall for that more than once, if at all.

Win some, lose some, John figured.

 

But it was hard knowing that things you had done together, stupid things really, things that you would want to remember, inside jokes and secret plans like eight-year-olds made in their tree-houses. They'd never be able to have those again, to arrive home after a chase or something, and John could refer to something that happened only an hour ago, and they would both laugh, almost falling down the wall like that first case together.

No more of that. And it hurt.

Of course, it was always amazing to watch Sherlock's eyes light up when John brought out, what, was to him, a new book.

And he did it every day.

But the look on Sherlock's face was almost worth the rest of the suffering,the rest of the loss.

Almost.

The rest of it was made up for by the brilliant twinkle when he reached a deduction, how he excitedly explained his deductions to everyone else, how every time he saw Mrs Hudson was like the first time he'd seen her in weeks, always greeting her with a hug and a kiss, and the moment when he realized for what was the millionth time, even before he lost his memories, that John genuinely liked him, genuinely thought he was brilliant, and genuinely wanted to be around him.

 

And Sherlock didn't even have enough time to get angry about it. He only had thirty minutes. Sometimes his bad moods would spill over, and he would spend an entire day on the couch, muttering into the cushions some profound secrets that he'd forgotten he'd told them before.

And John was fine with that. Because it did suck. And just because Sherlock remembered how much it sucked every thirty minutes did not make it suck even less.

But John could always tempt him with a cold case, an interesting crime, one of the ones Sherlock had left the flat for when it was new, and that he kept around now just in case, for times like this.

 

And Sherlock was brilliant and amazing and utterly fantastic, but even he couldn't live in thirty minutes.

No one could.


	2. Chapter 2

It was from a case. Wasn't it always?

John waited by Sherlock's bed for him to wake up.

He was comatose and intubated for the first day. On the second day the swelling had gone down enough that he could be extubated. He was still unconscious though.

John had hope for the third day.

 

And indeed it was not misplaced. Sherlock was restless for most of that day, occasionally moaning or sighing, signs that he was sleeping, not unconscious.

Sure enough, he finally awoke enough to converse with John.

 

“John?” Sherlock muttered.

His eyes were only open a crack, and John could tell it was a lot of work for him to even keep them open that much.

“Yeah Sherlock?”

“W'happened?”

“Oh, the usual. A criminal tried to kill you.” John eyed him carefully. “Do you remember any of that?”

Sherlock shook his head, then winced.

“You've got a head injury and some soft tissue damage. You feeling alright?”

Sherlock hummed, his eyes drifting shut.

“Oh John?” he said, cracking one eye open again.

“Yes?”

“Did we get'm?”

“Lestrade's working on it,” John said kindly. He knew Sherlock would see through that, but hoped he wasn't conscious enough to work it out right now.

“Least annoying... s'okay.”

“Right,” John confirmed, not having any clue what Sherlock was getting at.

Sherlock's eyes drifted shut and he was asleep in seconds.

 

It was another couple of hours before Sherlock awoke again, more lucid this time. John spent the time in between attempting to type up a blog post, but considering the lack of information he had about the current case, failed miserably. Eventually he gave up on that and watched some old episodes of Doctor Who, which was when Sherlock stirred again.

 

John set his laptop aside and watched Sherlock drift up to consciousness and make his way to lucidity.

“John?” he croaked.

John held a cup of water with a straw in it out to him, and Sherlock eyed it suspiciously before sipping at it.

“John, how did I get here?”

John looked at him. “Are you being serious?”

Sherlock only frowned. “Of course.”

“Oh. Right. The case, remember?” _No, he probably doesn't. He was barely conscious last time you told him and it's not too likely he regained any more memory since then._ “Or maybe you don't. He tried to kill you. Knocked you unconscious and almost strangled you to death.”

“He?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, whoever it is, we still don't know. You were getting close, but now that you can't remember what happened after you left the flat and before your injury, we're back to square one.” John watched Sherlock closely to see if there was any recognition in his face.

Sherlock's face remained blank.

He nodded slowly.

“And why am I still here?”

John snorted. “Maybe because you were in a coma for a day and had massive swelling of the tissue in your neck. That qualifies as hospital worthy.”

Sherlock frowned. “Hardly,” he grumbled. “When do I get to leave?”

John shook his head. “Not for a couple of days at least, until the swelling goes down and they make sure there's no permanent brain damage. There seems to be some memory loss, which is why you can't remember who did this. This isn't something you can just put a plaster on and wait for it to heal.”

Sherlock examined John. He seemed to be telling the truth, although that hadn't stopped Sherlock from leaving the hospital before.

He made a humming noise that he hoped would appease John.

 

John slid his chair away from Sherlock's bed and stood up.

“I'm going to run to the cafeteria, get something to eat. Do you want anything?”

Sherlock just shot him a look.

John chuckled. “Right. Sorry. I forgot that you don't eat. Still...”

“No.”

“Alright.” John felt Sherlock's eyes follow him as he left the room.


	3. Chapter 3

John returned twenty minutes later, having gotten ensnared twice, once in the cafeteria where he ran into Mike, and the second time in the elevator when he ran into a man he went to medical school with who'd heard all about Sherlock. Ethan. That was his name. John had never been particularly close to him, but he had a commendable work ethic and John knew he would go places. He asked after Sherlock.

John was more than happy to complain about Sherlock's propensity for dangerous situations and knack to get hurt to someone who was actually interested in listening.

“Oh, sorry, I didn't even ask. What are you doing now?”

Ethan grinned. “I mostly work in neuroscience. Some abnormal psychology, research, experiments. Your friend sounds like the perfect test subject.”

John chuckled. “Oh god, don't let him hear you say that. He'll start performing even more experiments in the living room.”

Ethan smiled. “Are you two... together?”

John paled. “God no. I don't know why everyone gets that idea. We're just flatmates.”

The other man nodded. “Right. It's just the way you talk about him...” he waved a hand. “I shouldn't keep you. I heard he's a hell of a patient.”

John grinned. “That's true enough. We should go out for a pint sometime. Get caught up.”

“Definitely,” Ethan called to him as he began walking away.

John grinned. Sherlock would definitely pick up on this development, but there was no need to rush it. Especially after Sherlock found out the man was a researcher. He'd never leave him a moment's peace and there would be that friendship dead in the water.

No, he'd have to keep Sherlock away from Ethan.

 

“I got you something anyway,” John declared, dropping the bag on the rolling tray currently situated above Sherlock.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“I got you some food,” John repeated. “Even though you told me you didn't want any.”

Sherlock frowned. “I don't want any.”

John rolled his eyes. “I know you don't, but I got you some anyway.” He sat down in the chair and looked at the telly, which was on but silent.

“John, what happened?” Sherlock said suddenly, not looking at him.

“Seriously Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded.

“We've been over this already. Twice in fact. Do you honestly not remember?”

For a second, a look of what could have been panic crossed Sherlock's face. But it was gone, and John couldn't help but think he imagined it, knowing that this was Sherlock, and since when did he panic.

What may or may not have been panic was replaced by confusion.

Sherlock shook his head slowly.

“You were on a case. A man tried to kill you?”

“What case?”

John shook his head. “I don't even know the details. I wasn't there for most of it, and since you can't remember it, Lestrade is just trying to piece bits together.”

“Well, then it's hardly my fault I don't remember,” Sherlock huffed.

“Of course,” John soothed.


	4. Chapter 4

Shortly after that Sherlock fell asleep and didn't wake until morning. Or at least, if he woke, he didn't bother John, who slept until morning.

 

He awoke with the sun on his face, but that wasn't what disturbed his slumber. That would have been the set of pale blue eyes watching him like a hawk.

“Jesus Sherlock!” John muttered, jumping a little. “How long have you been watching me?”

Sherlock shrugged.

John stretched his arms and yawned. “How are you feeling?”

“Slight headache. Very bruised neck. Bored. When are we leaving?”

John snorted. “I can leave any time I want because I am not a patient, unlike you, who will be staying at least another night. Were you just not listening or choosing to ignore me?”

Sherlock frowned, but didn't say anything.

He pulled his phone out from under the sheets, which he must have found on the table before glaring at John to wake him up, and typed something out before slipping it back under the sheets.

“Who are you texting?” John asked.

Sherlock looked at him. It wasn't one of Sherlock's usual looks, the 'I can't believe you just asked that' or the 'it's so obvious how can you function' looks. It made John uneasy to not be able to recognize the expression on Sherlock's face when he quipped “Does it matter?”

John frowned. “I suppose not.”

Sherlock's phone vibrated a second later and he snatched it up, peering at the message.

John didn't bother asking again.

 

“Bored!” Sherlock declared not five minutes later. “I want to go home now,” he whined to John.

John took a deep breath and pushed himself out of his chair.

“I will go find your doctor and see what he has to say. But I am not making any promises and you _will_ stay in that bed while I am gone.”

Sherlock pouted, but nodded.

“I thought you were my doctor?” he called just as John reached the door.

Sighing, John turned around. “I am your doctor, but I am not your _doctor._ Now behave.”

He could hear Sherlock rolling his eyes as he left.


	5. Chapter 5

He was eating lunch with Mike when he got a text summoning him to a suspect's house. Except it was more one of those 'I'm going, and it may be best if there's some back up, considering this man has violently killed four people already' texts rather than 'this interrogation should be fun, wanna join in?' texts.

A sort of foreboding text.

The kind of text that made John jump in a cab and dance in his seat, wishing the traffic could disappear.

The kind of text that made John leap out of the cab as soon as they arrived, throw notes at the driver, and knock as he opened the door, rather than wait for someone to come invite him in.

 

“Sherlock?” he called, getting a pit in his stomach that he hoped had more to do with eating and running immediately after rather than a foreboding sensation of something about to go wrong.

But there was a thump and John rather lost hope for that theory.

He dashed to where the sound came from, spotting a flash of what was probably the heel of the assailant. But there was no time to chase him because Sherlock was lying on the floor motionless where he had just been dropped. He had been the sound John had heard.

“Sherlock?” he called again, much more panicking this time, rushing to his side and checking his pulse and respirations. He was not breathing.

“Dammit Sherlock,” John muttered, unknotting that stupid scarf from around Sherlock's neck. He must have been choked with it.

When it was loosened John kneaded Sherlock's breastbone with his knuckles, praying it would work.

It did, to a certain extent. Sherlock gasped for air, wheezing horribly. But he was breathing.

John had dialled 999 on his mobile while doing all this. How he did he wasn't sure, and was surprised when someone picked up.

He paused when asked for his location.

“I don't know,” he stammered.

Sudden noises came from the front of the house.

_Dammit._

“Sherlock?” A familiar voice called.

 _Lestrade,_ John thought in relief.

“In here!” he bellowed. “Did you bring paramedics?”

Lestrade appeared in the doorway, smiling and replying “Of course with Sherlock, we should just get him his own set...” but trailed off as he spotted the consulting detective on the floor, still wheezing, bleeding from a large gash in his forehead.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Donovan! In here!” he yelled.

The paramedics rushed in only a second later.

John backed out of their way, listening to the medical chatter he was so comfortable with, and was not at all reassured by it.

Some of it stuck, some of it didn't.

“We need to intubate...”

“Hypoxia...”

“Load him...”

Sherlock was rolled out on a stretcher. John followed in the ambulance. The paramedics didn't say anything to him. He was quiet and not in their way. He was practically invisible. And he was fine with that. As long as he got to stay with Sherlock.

 

They arrived at A&E, Sherlock rolled out with a clatter, one paramedic bagging him, keeping an eye on the monitors and lines, and the other pushing the stretcher while a stream of vitals came out of her mouth, directed at the doctors who ran out to greet them.

“...male found down, not breathing. His scarf was wrapped around his neck from being choked by an unknown assailant. He started breathing again when it was removed. We tubed him for respiratory distress and low sats, and because we were worried about swelling. Bleeding from a head wound, GCS 6= E1c V1s M4 at 18:14. Pulse is strong, BP is 110 over 83...”

John mostly stopped listening there was he was kept behind swinging doors that Sherlock disappeared through.

Then Lestrade appeared and Mycroft, and it was a blur until he fell asleep at Sherlock's bedside and woke up the next morning.

 

He had awoken the third day and John had been hopeful. Now on the fourth, he was growing more worried again. Sherlock was awake, but there was something else. Something very, very wrong.


	6. Chapter 6

John returned to find a fretting Sherlock.

“Where did you go?” he demanded.

John frowned. “I told you. To talk to your doctor. I'm sorry if it took too long.”

Sherlock scowled at him, like everything bad and annoying in the world at that moment was John's fault. It was a look usually reserved for his brother and John was rather surprised to see it directed at him.

“So?” Sherlock countered.

John shook his head. “Tomorrow.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but was cut off by a voice from behind John.

“I believe he was talking to me John.”

At least that explained the look. It wasn't directed at John, but instead Mycroft.

John threw his hands up. “Oh hello Mycroft. So nice of you to let me know that you were stopping by.”

Mycroft stepped around him to stand at the end of the bed and raised an eyebrow.

“Didn't Sherlock tell you?”

Sherlock frowned. “As you may have noticed, although your observational skill are weak at best, John arrived just before you and I did not have a chance to speak with him.”

Mycroft sniffed. “You had plenty of time to inform him before he left. I know for a fact that Doctor Watson would not leave you unless you were awake and knew where he was going. And since I sent you a _text_ earlier this morning, there would have been time.”

He said 'text' with the disdain of someone speaking about something too revolting to even think about.

Sherlock only scowled at him.

John knew this interaction well. He'd watched Sherlock and Mycroft get in more pissing matches than he could count, all taking the same general form, rarely escalating beyond the occasional shouting and throwing (on Sherlock's part), but this was different. It was more like Sherlock was following along, going through the motions without any clue as to the endgame. Or even the reason Mycroft had stopped by at all.

It was making him uneasy.

 

“Right. I think you can step out now,” John said firmly. He left no room for argument and Mycroft seemed to recognize that.

He nodded briefly and stepped out. He would be waiting there for John.

John turned his attention to Sherlock.

“What the hell is going on with you? Does your head hurt?”

Sherlock looked away, saying nothing.

“Right. We're going to do some tests.”

Sherlock groaned.

“I will allow Mycroft back in here if you're not willing to cooperate.”

Sherlock turned his head to glare at John, who only shrugged.

“Fine,” he sighed.

“Three words. I'm going to ask you to remember them and I'll check later alright?”

Sherlock only looked at him indignantly.

John sighed. “Erm... right. Rat, wedding, bow.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes loudly.

“What? Don't like them?”

“They're stupid and mundane. You couldn't have picked anything more intriguing?”

John frowned. “Fine. I'll change them. Homicide, concerto, tea.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Easy.”

“Well, then you should remember them when I ask you later. I'm going to talk to Mycroft now. Behave. Please,” he pleaded.

Sherlock only gave him a look that anyone else would have melted at. John had grown immune and only laughed. “It doesn't work on me. I mean it Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed, and John took that as a reluctant agreement, and headed out the door.

 

Mycroft was seated in one of the family waiting rooms, practically owning the place.

John sat down next to him, rubbing his face with the heels of his hands.

“Being difficult?” he asked. John could hear the smirk in his voice.

John looked up and smiled. “Not so much more than usual, but there's something... off about him. There's something he's not telling me, whether it's about the case or how he's feeling, but I can tell there is something. Medically he seems to be doing fine. He'll go for another CT today and have a full neuro workup before he gets to go home, but he's lucid and no more confusing than usual.”

Mycroft nodded and examined him.

“Was there something you wanted?” John asked. Mycroft didn't usually come for simply social visits. The man always have an ulterior motive, sometimes multiple.

Mycroft sighed and chose his next words carefully. “I was concerned.”

John frowned. “You didn't come when he was unconscious. Why would you come now when he can actually express his displeasure that you're here?”

Mycroft stood up. “That's not important. I would like to speak with my brother alone if you don't mind.”

John stood up as well. “Yeah, sure. I'll run down to the cafeteria and get some breakfast. If he asks, tell him I'll be back in twenty minutes or so.”

Mycroft nodded and headed off, looking confident and official. John watched him go, knowing no one would ever question his business in the hospital. When people looked like they knew what they were doing, no one asked questions. It was one of the reasons Sherlock could get into almost anywhere. He was ridiculously charismatic and self confident. So much so that sometimes it made John sick to watch.

He sighed, shaking his head, and headed to the elevator. He hoped the breakfast options were better than the dinner ones, which he'd only barely managed to choke down, and that Sherlock had only looked at with scorn.


	7. Chapter 7

The breakfast options weren't much better.

John returned after a disappointing breakfast to find Sherlock sprawled across the bed, taking up as much space as possible without falling off. It was rather admirable really.

“He just left,” Sherlock sighed, not even looking up.

“Mycroft?”

Sherlock snorted. “Who else.”

“What did he want to talk about?”

Sherlock sat up slightly and waved his hands at John. “Nothing important. Can I go now?”

John fixed him with a look. “No. So stop asking.” He sat down in the chair at Sherlock's bedside.

Sherlock glanced at him, deducing, and said finally, “Disappointing breakfast, was it?”

John only sighed and nodded.

“Typical.”

“Tell me the three words.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but sat up straighter and glared at John. “Homicide. Concerto. Tea.”

John nodded, but inside, there was something bothering him. Something that he couldn't put his finger on. _Oh..._

“Give me your phone,” he demanded, holding out his hand.

Sherlock looked at it innocently. “Why?”

“You bloody well know why. Now give it to me or I will get Mycroft to come back.”

Sherlock glared at him with a look that could have killed a lesser man, but handed the phone over, throwing it sulkily at John before rolling over to pout.

“I will ask you again later.”

Sherlock didn't stir.

“Sulk all you want. I'm on to you.”

“So not,” Sherlock mumbled.

 

John left shortly after that when the neurology team showed up to do a full neurological workup.

He didn't hear any screaming, which he took to mean it was successful and that no one died. So all in all, an excellent result.

He did go with Sherlock when he went for imaging, mostly just scolding him through the speakers to stop wiggling, even if he was bored.

 

“Alright,” John said when Sherlock was settled back in his room after the scans and workups, rather grumpy. “Give me the three words.”

Sherlock shot him a look. “What three words? Any three words? There are almost infinite combinations of three words John. You're going to have to be more specific.”

“The three words I gave you earlier and told you to remember?”

Sherlock only waved a hand at John. “Must have deleted them.”

John frowned. “No. I told you to remember them and that they were important. You wouldn't have deleted them.”

Sherlock shrugged.

John chose his next words carefully. “Sherlock, what have you done today?”

Sherlock muttered into his pillow, and John went around to the other side of his bed to remove it.

“Say that again?”

“Bored. You told me words. Brain scans. Tests. Bored. Very bored.”

John frowned. “Who came to visit you today?”

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said with an air of confidence that John didn't believe for a second.

“No Sherlock,” John said gently, shaking his head. “Mycroft came to visit. You talked together this morning while I went to get breakfast.”

“Must have deleted it,” Sherlock muttered.

John frowned. “No you wouldn't have. I know you Sherlock. You keep encounters with your brother, even if only to complain about them later. Are you telling me you honestly don't remember anything you did this morning?”

Sherlock made a growling sound.

John was mildly amused, but shook his head. “That's not an answer I'm going to accept.”

Sherlock rolled over again to face away from John. “Leave me alone.”

John relented and went to sit in the chair in the corner.

 

Half an hour later Sherlock looked up like nothing had happened and complained he was bored. He did not acknowledge what had taken place, or even that he was still angry with John.

This continued for the rest of the evening, until John went to get something to eat, and when he returned, Sherlock was gone.

“Bloody hell,” John muttered to himself, dropping the unappealing food on the table and heading out to check with the nurses.

Sherlock hadn't gone far, only to the paediatric ward where he'd gotten distracted insulting the accuracy of their toys, and when brought back by a large male nurse, blamed John.

“I didn't know where you went!” he accused.

“Thanks,” John nodded to the man, who left them alone. “I told you where I was going. To get food. And don't tell me you deleted it.”

Sherlock scowled and didn't speak to John for twenty minutes.

 

They sedated Sherlock to sleep that night on John's request after he tried to leave again, more than once, one time even getting so far as the first floor before Mycroft's men caught up to him.

He fought the sedative drugs, but they both knew he would lose out in the end, giving in to sleep.

John read the reports from the neuro workup and psychological exam, which they had somehow managed to fit in, probably at Mycroft's insistence. Then he read the report from the brain imaging, and finally, the summary from the doctor in charge of Sherlock's case.

_Focal neurological deficits... memory... short term... no obvious damage on scans... hypoxic brain injury... concussion... history of multiple head injuries... amnesia... unknown outcome for recovery..._

John stopped reading after that and went to make a phone call.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock slept fitfully, even with the sedatives. He'd never liked being sedated to sleep, and they mostly cause him to have awful dreams rather than put him into a peaceful slumber as they were expected to with most other patients.

This dream wasn't a dream so much as a skewed version of reality, a reality that he'd been trying to avoid.

He was in his mind palace, but it wasn't entirely his anymore. The rules had been changed and it was no longer behaving the way it was expected to. The doors were locked, and he couldn't get out, or let anything in.

The memories were there, outside his mind palace. Sherlock could see them through the windows, their taunting outline, could see that they were important. He could even make out what they were, the general shape they took, that some of them were desperately important, but he couldn't make out the details. He wanted to throw open the doors, round them up, herd them in, sort them into their proper places and throw back out the ones he didn't need, but that wasn't going to happen. Because now the doors were locked and guarded and he was left without a key. Nothing would be able to come in. Not anymore.

 

He locked himself in the John memory room and rocked, trying to think of a way to fix things.

He woke up exhausted with no solution.  


	9. Chapter 9

John called Ethan, but it was not to invite him to go out for a pint.

“I'm concerned about his memory. I think the head injury did something to it. I'd like you to take a look, provide a second opinion. With your background in neuroscience, I think you'd be great, and I can trust you.”

Of course he agreed.

“Great. I've made sure you have access to the brain scans and any of the reports the other neurologists made, as well as the psych evaluation, although I don't think it would be of much help. He mostly tore the poor resident to shreds.”

Ethan had laughed.

They set up an appointment for the next day, right before Sherlock was to be discharged.

He didn't tell Sherlock. Besides, it really wouldn't have mattered, since he would have forgotten about it anyway.


	10. Chapter 10

“Anterograde amnesia,” Ethan was saying. Explaining. Describing.

John has a vague idea of what it was, but didn't know if Sherlock did.

Yes, apparently.

“No new memories,” Sherlock said flatly.

Ethan nodded. “Working memory is retained, which in your case is about 30 minutes, which is extremely impressive, but short term memories can no longer be formed. The part of the brain that does that, the hippocampus, has been damaged, probably as a result of the hypoxia rather than the head injury.”

Sherlock only looked at him.

One small part of that kept repeating itself over and over in John's head. _30 minutes. 30 minutes. 30 minutes. No matter how impressive that is, it's still only 30 minutes. What will become of us? Of his work? Of his life?_

“Will he ever be able to regain the ability to make new memories?” John asked.

Ethan looked away before answering, and that was the only answer John needed. “It's not likely. In all the other patients I've seen and read about, they never regained that ability. Of course, Sherlock is rather unique in many ways, and there is no way of telling.”

John could feel Sherlock puff up almost imperceptibly with pride at that statement. That was all he needed. Someone telling Sherlock he was special. He was, but Sherlock already had a high enough opinion of himself that it didn't need to be encouraged any more.

Of course he'd forget about it in 30 minutes or so.

John would have preferred a Sherlock with an inflated ego rather than one with a leak that would soon deflate.

He realized Ethan had asked him a question. “Sorry?”

“I asked if you would be there as his main caretaker.”

John shifted in his seat. “Well, I'll still be his flatmate, and I suppose it'll be a lot like it was before.” John glanced over at Sherlock who seemed rather uncomfortable with the entire thing. “I wouldn't think he'd need a caretaker. At least, not anymore than he did before.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that.

“Once he gets a system that works for him, no he won't, but until then, things are going to be very confusing and messy. He's not going to remember what he was doing, why he was doing it, or even that the accident has happened. That part will come, but the others won't.”

“Which, coupled with his penchance to conducting explosive and time sensitive experiments, is one hell of a mess.”

Ethan smiled and nodded. “I'd imagine so.”

Sherlock sighed loudly, indicating he was done with this little chat.

“Oh calm down,” John scolded. “Thank you again,” he said to Ethan, standing up and reaching a hand out for him to shake.

“Oh, it's no problem at all. I'm flattered you asked me to be involved in Sherlock's care.”

“Still up for that pint?”

“Of course. You've got my number now,” he noted, gesturing to the business card still clutched in Sherlock's hand.

“It'll probably be a couple of weeks unless I can find someone to babysit him.”

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes loudly.

Ethan only laughed. “And he has a follow up appointment made?”

John nodded. “Thank you. Again.”

Ethan nodded.

“John, what are we doing here?” Sherlock asked loudly, arms crossed as he stood behind the chair.

John sighed, and Ethan looked at him knowingly.

“We're going home. Come on,” he said, pushing Sherlock lightly towards the door.

He grumbled, but allowed John to push him.

John looked at Ethan one last time before leaving the room, and he was looking at the pair of them with a sad smile that John knew all too well.

He very much didn't like it being used on them.

When Sherlock was out of the doorway, John closed it behind them.

“Are we here to go to the morgue?” Sherlock asked, with the excitement of a small child being told they were to have a bouncy castle at their birthday.

“We just came from there. We're going home now.”

Sherlock frowned. “You're lying. We weren't at the morgue.”

“Maybe I am. But we're leaving now, so march.”

Sherlock scowled all the way back to Baker Street until he forgot why he was scowling.

Of course, when John shot down an experiment to test how explosive flesh was, the scowl returned.

Until he forgot again and discovered the Doctor Who marathon on the telly.


	11. Chapter 11

Lestrade was hesitant to have Sherlock return to helping at crime scenes again, but as Sherlock pointed out, he would still be better than most of his team, especially if it included Anderson. (It did.)

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically at Lestrade and grabbed his coat, beckoning John to follow him.

“Don't bother telling me the details now, I'll just forget them. Text them to me!” he called down the stairs as Lestrade left.

He shrugged his coat on and looked at John pointedly. “Are you coming?” he asked.

John looked bewildered.

Sherlock sighed. “John, thirty minutes is more than enough time for me to deliver my deductions with a bow on top. So are you going to come or not?”

John nodded, grabbing his coat off the hook and throwing it on as he clambered down the stairs after Sherlock, who was already halfway into a cab by the time John had reached the door.

 

For some unknown reason, although Ethan had told John it was rather common, Sherlock managed to retain knowledge about his injury. And it wasn't just a Sherlock thing, because the other patients Ethan had read and heard about had also retained some awareness about their handicap.

And for that, John was thankful. He was having a hard enough time adjusting as it was, and he honestly didn't know what he would do if Sherlock looked at John every thirty minutes and asked him why he couldn't remember how he got there. Because Sherlock was smart, and he would figure it out in those thirty minutes, and the final result would be a mess that John would be forced to clean up, and by the time he did, it would just start all over again.

John was thankful for a lot of things.

 

Indeed, Sherlock gave Lestrade's team enough information that they were able to solve the case, despite forgetting what they were doing there as they were leaving.

John crossed his fingers they wouldn't see Anderson on the way out, especially after the greeting Sherlock had given him, but it was not meant to be.

“Ah, Anderson!” Sherlock had said, smirking. “So nice to see you. I can't recall having insulted you recently, so I really must make up for that.”

But by then John'd had enough.

He clamped a hand over Sherlock's mouth, praying the prat didn't bite him, and dragged Sherlock away to a cab.

“That was hardly necessary,” he grumbled as they headed back to Baker Street.

“Sherlock, I know you don't remember, but you almost made him cry when we got there.”

“So I was on a roll today! Why did you stop me?”

John only gave him a look of disgust and went back to texting Ethan.

They wouldn't be meeting up this week.

* * *

 

John's blog posts grew more detailed, containing play by plays of what happened during cases. John never published those posts, just saved them as drafts. Sherlock would read them when he hacked into John's computer, which was still child's play for him. John didn't mind. That was why he did it of course.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock only got lost once, and as he informed John, he was not lost, but rather, John had not known where he was, because Sherlock was perfectly aware of where he was.

John had relented, saying that he had lost Sherlock rather than Sherlock being lost, but it was still an unnerving experience that he did not wish to repeat, even though it had lasted for an hour at most. But with Sherlock, an hour could be a very long time. Two cycles of memory. So John felt he was justified for being worried.

Of course, Sherlock had just gone to the morgue at Bart's which was where he remained until John picked him up, apologizing to Molly, who reassured him it was no trouble, really.

“I'm going to put you on a bloody leash,” John grumbled in the cab on the way back to the flat.

“I don't know what you're going on about,” Sherlock replied, looking at his phone.

“Come on Sherlock, you didn't even text me back.”

Sherlock frowned. “Indeed. I suppose I forgot.”

John punched Sherlock in the upper arm.

“Hey!” he complained. “What was that for?”

“You should text me back as soon as you get the message. That way you can't forget.”

“And how am I supposed to remember to do that?” Sherlock replied, with far too much sass that was necessary.

John didn't answer that, just swiping Sherlock's phone when he was asleep the next day, changing the text alerts depending on who they were from.

 

Sherlock was amused to discover them as people texted him.

Lestrade's alert was a chorus of 'murder!' that John had found somewhere on the internet. He didn't want to know why it was there. There were a lot of things online he didn't question.

Mycroft's text alert (and his ring tone, since he so rarely texted) was a foghorn, low and ominous.

Mrs Hudson's was a recording of her yelling at Sherlock, which was remarkably easy to get.

And John's was an amusing chorus of high pitched chipmunks singing. That way, he could be sure there was no ignoring that, even if Sherlock was in the depths of his mind palace.

And that was really all the people who texted Sherlock. Of importance anyway.

John could only cross his fingers and hope that Sherlock would continue to be amused every time he rediscovered them and wouldn't change the notifications back to silent.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock got a tablet. It became a huge part of his life, right up there behind John. He took it everywhere.

He put case files on it, phone numbers, names and pictures of new people so he could recognize them. John suspected he wouldn't use that feature much considering how rarely he actually called people by their actual names. (After all, this was the name who didn't know Greg was Lestrade's first name after more than five years of years knowing him.)

John took the liberty of putting Sherlock's name on it in large stickers. And he named the tablet of course. (Hamish.) Sherlock seemed amused with it every time, which was more than John could say for most things.

It became his memory for him, full of mad scribblings that John couldn't decipher, and even suspected might be in some sort of code. (Mycroft confirmed this a couple of months later. John didn't want to know how.)


	13. Chapter 13

John had managed to drag Sherlock out one day, shopping. It had taken a hell of a lot of convincing, but there was only so much one could do when he forgot every thirty minutes what it was he was doing.

Sherlock had planted himself next to a stack of books near the wall, which John had failed to notice. He looked up and Sherlock wasn't there. And he was reaching the end of his memory stint, if he wasn't there already, so he'd have forgotten where he was, what he was doing, and who he was with. He could probably deduce the first two, but could theoretically tear the store apart looking for John.

 

And indeed, when Sherlock looked up from a book he was flipping through, only to find he was in a Tesco's, he was perplexed. He hid it well, not outwardly panicking, but wandering around the store wondering if he was supposed to be doing something. Probably not a chase, because he wouldn't have been looking at books. Perhaps John had dragged him out shopping? But then why had he left him unattended? Sherlock doubted that was something John would do.

Or maybe Sherlock had just wandered off to Tesco's to pick up something and forgotten in the middle of it. But then he would have made himself a note and still be clutching it.

There was no note.

 

Sherlock did ever increasing laps around the store, growing more panicked with each one, and quickening his pace with each. It got to the point where he was practically jogging through the aisles when he finally spotted John in the cereal section.

“Where have you been?” he demanded.

John smiled. “Just shopping. I knew you'd find me.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “No you didn't. I could have left. I could have gone back to the flat. I could have run off.”

“Sherlock, you're not a child! I don't need to keep an eye on you all the time.”

Sherlock frowned larger still. He knew that, of course, but was almost disappointed that John didn't care more about his well being.

“Besides,” he continued. “You're bloody well impossible to lose now, what with the GPS in your phone, the tracker in your coat, the dozen or so cameras I'm sure Mycroft has pointed in your general direction at the moment, and the implant you put in your neck.”

Sherlock felt his neck. Indeed, there was a small incision that spoke of a recent wound.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

“You say that every time,” John noted with amusement.

Sherlock smiled. “Well, yes. I would, wouldn't I?” He changed the subject. “Can we get ice cream?”

“Sure.”


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock came across the Braille books one day.

John watched with amusement as Sherlock examined them and ran his hands across the cover.

“Hamlet,” he noted.

“Yes,” John agreed.

“I didn't think I knew Braille,” he said with amusement.

John only smiled. “No, of course you didn't. You learned it after.”

Sherlock stopped running his hand across the page and stared at John. “John. What are you saying?”

“It's a different type of memory. Not declarative. It's like conditioning. It's more on a subconscious level. So you will never be able to remember that you know Braille, but you will be able to read it.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock breathed. “Can we do it with other things?”

John paused thoughtfully. “I should try it with conditioning. I could get you to do so many things.”

Sherlock snorted. “Excuse me John, I'm not Pavlov's dog.”

John shrugged. “We'll see about that.”

 

Sherlock made a note.

_Watch out for suspicious conditioning behaviours. John may be experimenting._

 

* * *

 

 

“A man is the sum of his memories, John,” Sherlock informed him wearily one day.

John looked up from the paper. “So?”

Sherlock sighed his 'John is stupid' sigh. “I'm not going to grow. My sum will forever remain at what it is now. And if anything, as I grow old, _if_ I grow old, it will only decrease. That's no way to live.”

“What do you mean _if?_ ”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John, considering my line of work, it's miraculous I've lived this long. I very well may not make it to old age.”

“Alright. But so what if your sum doesn't change. Change isn't always good, right?”

Sherlock sighed again, but seemed to give up on the subject.


	15. Chapter 15

“What will I have in the end John?” he said quietly.

John looked over at him suddenly. Sherlock got the feeling that this wasn't the first time he had asked, nor would it be the last. He wondered how much it hurt John to have to answer the same painful questions, day after day.

“I don't know Sherlock.”

“Will I ever get these memories? Will they one day become long term and I'll suddenly have access to them? I'll be dying, on my deathbed, and suddenly I'll remember where I left the last bit of the experiment, or who my attacker was.”

John smiled sadly. “We both know it doesn't work that way.”

Sherlock sighed. “Yes.”

And they did. Memories didn't work that way.

Sherlock knew it from before, just like John did. John knew it from school, a whole course that just looked at how the brain functioned. It was fascinating. He still didn't know why Sherlock knew it, probably for a case or something, or maybe he'd once had interest in the brain and hadn't got around to deleting it.

He wasn't sure if he was glad Sherlock knew it or not. He wasn't sure he could explain it every time Sherlock asked. Because while it may have been the first time for him, John didn't know if he could handle doing that over and over. At least this way, Sherlock didn't have any false hope.

 

“So in the end, I'll have nothing. Nothing but what happened before, and if I'm being honest, most of that I'd rather forget.”

John did his best not to look hurt, but Sherlock saw it nonetheless.

He rolled his eyes. “Not you John. I don't ever want to forget you.”

John smiled at that.

“Thank you.”

Sherlock only nodded. They both pretended it wasn't a big deal.

 

Sherlock snuck off shortly after that, before he could forget, and made a new sticky note, which he stuck to the wall in his bedroom. It was where he kept the most important things, but the ones he didn't really want John to see.

 

_Tell John you don't ever want to forget him. It makes him smile._


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock wasn't sure what he was doing. Writing... a blog post. On the importance of perfumes.

He frowned. He did this before. Then deleted it.

Perhaps this time he wouldn't delete it.

It was hard to find things to work on that didn't require him remembering details of an experience. When he did an experiment he took detailed notes. Even then, looking at them wasn't the same as what he was able to do before, peer through reels of memories within his mind palace, flick through the ones he wanted, and watch them as if it was happening all over again.

He could do that with the old memories, but his shelves stayed stocked at the same number.

There were no new movies. No new memories.

 

John was watching him. He could feel it.

Sherlock looked up at him.

John smiled. “'In the end, the wind takes everything, doesn't it? And why not? Why other? If the sweetness of our lives did not depart, there would be no sweetness at all.'”

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. “You've told me this before, haven't you?”

John shrugged. “Does it matter? And don't say it does for some stupid reason, because for you, it doesn't. This is your first time hearing this. And everyday I get to say something to you for the first time. Every single day. You have no clue how amazing that is to me.” He grinned. “Every day I get to tell you something for the first time, and I will never get over your reaction to it.”

Sherlock smiled back. “Only you, John. Only you.”

 

And so they returned to whatever it was they were doing, for however long it was until Sherlock's memories slipped away and John was able to do it all over again.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter is long. Sorry in advance. You'll know why.

 Sherlock blinked.

It must have been morning. Early morning. He must just be getting up. He felt like he'd just woken up, stiff from staying in one position all night. His mouth had that morning taste.

Yes. Morning.

 

Sherlock sat up.

Not Baker Street. But... somehow familiar. It must be his place, because all of his things were there. The skull, the desk, stacks of journals and books.

He must have moved.

He wonders why.

 

Sherlock got out of bed.

His legs felt fragile, like they could break. Or maybe not break, but just... go wrong. They felt old. He felt old.

There was a mirror on the wall.

He looked old too. Sixty at least.

He smiled and it looked strange on a face that wasn't his.

He never expected to see sixty.

He wondered it he woke up every morning and smiled at his old face in the mirror, still surprised that he made it that far. And not only that, but realize every thirty minutes or so that he, Sherlock Holmes, had reached a ripe old age.

Who would have expected it?

 

Sherlock stood in front of the door.

It was plastered with sticky notes. Important reminders, ones that he had to keep in plain sight, otherwise he would forget that he forgot them and things would go downhill.

 

_Take your vitamin. It's in the cupboard next to the sink._

_Cross today off the calendar._

_You are 68. (Yes, you're old. No, no one suspected this.)_

_Lestrade died five years ago._

_Call Molly every Saturday. (Make note on calendar.)_

_Mycroft died last June._

_Mrs Hudson died peacefully a long while ago._

_You moved here eight months ago. If needed, a floor plan is in the desk._

_John died nineteen days ago._

 

Sherlock blinked back the tears.

It hurt. It hurt, probably like it had hurt every morning and every thirty minutes of every single day since then.

He crumpled it up and wrote a new one to see the next morning.

 

_John died twenty days ago._

 

He went downstairs to make breakfast.

A bowl of cereal and a cup of tea later, and he stuck a new note on the fridge.

 

_Ate breakfast. 8:30am._

 

He sat down at his laptop. The password was easy. He hadn't changed it since.

Or if he had, he'd changed it back. There was no way of knowing.

He smiled.

 

He spent some time rereading his blog posts. John's blog posts. His favourites were bookmarked. He didn't know how many times he'd read them. Dozens, if not hundreds. They were probably imprinted on his eyelids when he closed his eyes at night. If he could remember.

Perhaps he should do an experiment about that. How many times did you have to read something before the words became seared into your eyes, how many times until they became part of you, how many times until you could remember them.

He didn't write it down.

 

Sherlock pushed his chair back from the computer.

“What was I doing?” he muttered to the skull.

It only grinned cheerily at him.

“Did I eat?”

He wandered out to the kitchen. The note on the fridge told him he ate.

“John?” he called.

The house was too silent.

He wandered down the hall.

A note informed him of the fact.

 

_John is dead._

 

He bit his lip and tried not to cry. It hurt. It was an old hurt, one that had been felt over and over, but was still new every time.

This was no way to live.

He'd probably tried other ways, of course. He was clever. But it must have been bad. Or worse. Or so heartbreaking that he knew he could never go through it again.

 

He scrolled through the files on his laptop.  
One was labelled 'Don't take down the John notes'.

He stared at it for a moment before clicking on it. It would probably hurt.

But even if it did, it would be gone soon, replaced by another, maybe one that was worse, maybe one that was better.

But there would always be more pain.

 

_You're reading this, so you're probably wondering. For me, it was two days ago. I tried it without the notes. I tore the house apart. I called him. I looked for any trace of him._

_There was none._

_I found the notes where I crumpled them up in the garbage. I sobbed until I forgot. Then I sobbed more. It's funny what growing old can do to you. Emotions come more readily, time seems to pass at a different rate._

_Don't take the notes down. At least this way, you're not given any hope._

_John made me watch Doctor Who, and there was one quote that I feel fits this situation. It's from before, so I will never forget it. I suppose you won't either._

You gave me hope and then you took it away. That's enough to make anyone dangerous.

_So don't do it to yourself. Not again. This probably isn't the first time you've read this, and I'm sure it won't be the last._

_Keep the notes. They're the lesser of two evils._

 

Sherlock pushed away from the computer.

Of course he had. Of course. Of course. It was all so predictable. And yet he remembered none of it. He would remember none of it.

All the memories, all the things that had made up his life, everything since that one day... gone.

A man was supposed to be the sum of his memories.

Except he kept reverting back to his baseline. No more addition. There could only be subtraction.

A depressing thought that he would be forced to think over and over again, each time like it was the first.

Because it was.

 

He wrote a new sticky note. Bold letters.

He hung it on the fridge. He had to look at the fridge a lot, right?

He'd eaten breakfast. It wasn't really lunchtime. He wasn't hungry. It was odd now, especially that John was gone. There was no one to tell him to eat. He had to actually _listen_ to his body. It was unusual. Maybe. Or perhaps he'd just forgotten.

There were a bunch of sticky notes on the fridge. They all contained what he assumed were quotes. They looked too elegant to be something he'd come up with.

 

_One day this pain will be useful to you._

_What are people in the end, if not their memories?_

_A man is the sum of his memories._

And from John. _Don't forget to eat._

 

And the new one.

_**How am I supposed to heal if I can't... feel time?** _

 

There would be more and more, just like there were before these ones, tiny bits of his life that couldn't possibly add up to the whole that was Sherlock Holmes, could barely even capture a tiny bit, but he would try.

He would try, and he would cry, and he would do it all over again in thirty minute intervals until he died.

 

And he hoped, _prayed,_ that right before he did die, somehow, despite all he knew about memory and how it worked, that somehow, his life, all those memories gained and lost in thirty minute pieces, would all come back.

Just once.

Because it would hurt, but it would be the good kind of hurt. The best kind.

The hurt that came with remembering things and people you loved and lost.

Because it was right there on the fridge, small and unassuming, but there nonetheless.

 

_It's better to have loved and lost then to never have loved at all._

 

Of course, Sherlock didn't believe that.

But John had put it there.

And there it stayed.

Till the end of days.

 

 


End file.
